Chicken Soup
by Loki-mutt
Summary: Tom is sick. Chris just wants to help. Hiddlesworth.


He sniffed for the umpteenth time that morning, running his hand under his nose to wipe away the dribble of slime. The words in front of him moved across the page on their own accord, making it impossible to read. Tom groaned and set his book down, rubbing his temple with his free hand.

He had started feeling under the weather the past few days and hadn't had the time to go to the nearest store for medicine, an action he seriously regretted. To make it worse, he was supposed to meet Chris later in the day for dinner, and if he didn't start feeling better in about —he checked his clock—the next two hours, there was no way he would be able to go.

He sighed, contemplating whether to cancel the meeting or not. It was just a simple cold, after all. Nothing to really worry over. A tickle in his throat started a coughing fit that left him out of breath and gasping for air.

Tom fumbled around in his jeans pocket looking for his phone. It was better to go the safe route than be coughing through dinner, anyway. He would just have to make it up to Chris another time. He would understand.

Feeling slightly guilty, he dialed Chris' number. On the third ring, he picked up.

"Hello?" Static from the other end filled his ear and he held the phone away at a safe distance.

"Chris?" He yelled into the phone. "It Tom. Hello? Can you hear me?"

"WHAT?"

"Chris, move to a place where the static will stop!"

"What? I can't hear you! I'm going to move to a place with better reception!" He counted to ten before the static stopped. "Continue, mate."

Tom held back an exasperated sigh. "It's Tom. Listen, I'm sorry but I won't be able to make dinner tonight." He sniffled again.

"Cold?" Chris asked.

Tom nodded even though he knew Chris couldn't see it. "Yeah. I'm sorry, but I'll make it up to you, I swear." Another coughing fit came over him, this time making him double over in two. Stars filled his vision with every cough, and dizziness came over him. It was a miracle he was still holding the phone.

"Hey, man, that sounds awful. You need me to come over?"

"No, but thank you. I'll do fine on my own," he said, grabbing a box of Kleenex off the counter and taking out a few of the tissues.

"You sure? I won't mind. That sounds pretty bad. You know what, I'm coming over." Chris said as Tom blew his nose wetly.

"What? No! I said I was fine." He pleaded.

"You need someone with you. Just think of this as repaying me for the dinner."

"Wait, Chris—!" He hung up, leaving Tom listening to the drone of the dial tone. He groaned and dropped his phone on the counter, feeling more stuffed up than before he called Chris.

Great.

With nothing else to do, he plopped down on the couch to wait for Chris. He scooted into a corner and grabbed the pillows, putting them behind his head. The television was on a sports station. A skier had just flipped down the mountain and an ambulance was on the scene, putting him on a gurney. Apparently he had a broken neck. Poor guy.

Tom sat back against the pillows, continuing to watch the T.V., a commercial for No!No! coming on. His eyes got heavy and he yawned.

.,/.-./.,

He didn't remember falling asleep, but apparently he did because he woke to Chris shaking his shoulder rather painfully.

"Hey. I'm here," he said. "and I brought chicken soup." He held up the bowl.

Tom sat up and stretched, scratching his back. "Just put it on the counter."

His voice had gotten stuffy and rough during his nap. He massaged his throat. It was itching and scratchy even more than before.

"How long have you been here?" He called into the kitchen.

"Not long. About thirty minutes." Chris answered. Thirty minutes? He looked at the clock. An hour had passed since he called Chris, so he had been asleep for only thirty or so minutes before Chris had arrived. For some reason the thought that Chris had watched him sleep for thirty minutes made him blush.

"Is it alright if I put it in the fridge?" Chris called. "I'll heat it up later when you want it."

"That's fine." The sound of pots and pans being moved reached his ears, the clanking noises aggravating his already worsening headache.

"Where do you keep your thermometer?" Chris called again.

"It's in a box next to the toaster," he called back.

Chris came over from the kitchen and sat next to him, the cushion dipping under his bulk. He placed his hand on his cheek and Tom hoped that the heat coming from him was from a fever, not something else.

He gasped as Chris' cold hand touched his warm forehead, sending a small shock through him. Chris then moved his hands to his throat, checking his tonsils.

"Hmm, you may have a bit of Tonsillitis along with your cold. They're swollen pretty good," Chris said, moving to get the thermometer.

"How do you know so much about this?" Tom asked, holding the thermometer in his mouth. Chris pushed him back into a laying position. "Lay down. When you were as sick as I was as a child, you pick up on a few things. Here, let me take that." He took the thermometer from Tom as it beeped.

"One-hundred and two." Chris raised his eyebrows. ""I'll be fine on my own, Chris. You don't need to worry!"" Chris mocked using an exaggerated voice of Tom's.

"I promise I was a lot better before I called you."

"Uh huh."

Tom felt like a child being coddled by a doting parent as Chris bustled about, finding blankets for him and an ice pack wrapped in a small kitchen towel. Chris threw the blankets over Tom's feet and placed the ice pack on his head.

"There. Now, just lay there and rest."

Tom shifted under his blankets trying to find a warm spot. Chris surfed through the channels stopping on Cinemax, where Iron Man 3 was playing. He ordered it.

'_And do you know how I know? Because we're connected!' _

The movie was already halfway through when it came on the screen. They watched as Robert, or Tony in this instance, drove away, leaving the kid standing there looking peeved.

"Hey, I want some popcorn. Do you want your soup?" Chris asked. Tom nodded, continuing to watch the movie. Chris got up to go to the kitchen, the couch springs creaking. He heard rhythmic popping as the popcorn kernels were heated and Chris came back a moment later, a bag of popcorn in one hand and balancing a giant bowl of chicken soup in the other. He set both items on the table.

A spoon was shoved in his face. It was dripping chicken soup. "Here you go." Chris smiled. Tom scoffed and tried to grab the spoon from Chris, but the eldest Hemsworth moved it out of reach, chicken soup threatening to spill over.

"I can feed myself, Chris," Tom growled.

Chris hummed an affirmative, but still put the spoon back to his mouth. Tom stubbornly kept his mouth shut, not letting even a drop get in. Chris made a sort of half-giggle noise and continued to try and push the spoon in. Tom turned his head every time.

"Do you know how much of a child you look, mate? It's quite funny." Tom glared. "Just let me feed you this once, then you can feed yourself." Chris bargained. Tom sighed. "Fine."

The spoon came back again. This time Tom allowed it access and warm soup covered on his tongue. He licked his lips, getting any that might have missed. He had to admit, it was quite good.

He looked at Chris, who had a triumphant grin on his face. Tom made a 'give me' gesture with his hand, but Chris shook his head and held the spoon behind his back.

The normally nice Brit growled. "I'm not in the mood for games, Chris. Give me the damn spoon." Chris shook his head again, leaning close to Tom's face. "No. I want to feed you again." Chris' warm breath tickled his face—and was that a blush Tom saw?

"No, Chris."

Chris leaned closer, their noses now touching. "I think so, Tom." Chris leaned back and put the spoon in the bowl. Instead of forcing it to him like Tom imagined, Chris ate it.

Chris moaned in pleasure, the sound going straight to Tom's groin. "Are you sure you don't want some more, mate? It's really good." Chris licked his lips and Tom had to look away.

"How about this? I won't feed you with a spoon." Chris said, putting more soup in his mouth. "Instead..." Chris leaned forward again.

"Chris, what are you doing? Chris—" he was cut off as lips covered his own. He gasped and Chris took that moment to stick his tongue in Tom's mouth, the soup flowing from one mouth to another. Chris moaned, a sound that vibrated through, making Tom moan in return.

Tom tried his best to alternate between swallowing the soup and kissing Chris, resulting in Tom sucking Chris' tongue down his throat. He pulled away, a string of saliva the only thing connecting them. He swallowed the rest of the soup. Chris had a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Good, yeah?" Chris asked, licking his lips. "Hmmm." Tom glanced up and the younger man. "I just hope you know that you may know be sick as well."

Chris laughed softy. "I don't care." And explosion come behind them from the T.V., but neither paid attention to it. The bowl of soup gradually receded as they fed each other and neither noticed as night fell, or their phones ringing. They just continued to feed.

"Let's be sick together."


End file.
